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2015-05-25

Well. We've arrived at the last day of my pity party. So I guess I'd better get this last contest link posted! Today's prize is a digital copy of any book in my backlist. I haven't decided how many winners I'll pick. It depends on how many entries I get! That is not to say I'm giving books away to everyone who enters! My publishers might object to that! But the more entries, the more prizes. That's all I'm saying.

Today I'm featuring books from my LA Love Lessons series. Because, they're the only books I haven't really talked about yet this week. But first the contest link.

As the owner of The Body Electric, LA’s hottest new exercise studio, sexy, former film star Claire Calhoun has her pick of studly young men eager to do her bidding. Small wonder she’s used to calling the shots, both in and out of bed. But everything changes the night the actress-turned-entrepreneur has one mojito too many at a party and decides it would be fun to pick up her accountant, Mike Sherman. She's thinking fling. He's thinking forever.

Everyone in LA is waiting for The Big One - the big break or the big quake. Gabby's no different, but she's also waiting for the Big O - the elusive, G-spot, ultra orgasm. She thinks Zach, the super hot musician who's just moved into her building, might be able to give it to her. But her friend Derek, a martial arts instructor with whom she's co-writing a screenplay, keeps getting in the way.

Gabby refuses to even consider Derek for the role of soul mate because she fears sex will ruin their friendship. Derek has his own script in mind, and it doesn't include sharing Gabby with anybody.

When an early morning earthquake hits LA, Gabby realizes who her leading man has always been. As for the Big O...well...she's ready for her close up.

And now I'm going to leave you with a few links and teasers to our collected works. *snort*

Theirs was a love that nature never intended. Bigger than Texas. Hotter than Hades. Weirder than…a lot of other things you might have read about up until now.

Self-made zillionaire Rock Fangsworthy is your typical Texas cowboy…well, sort of. Typical in that the only thing this lethally sexy lady-charmer with the hair trigger temper loves more than his horse is his ranch, The Double Fang. Or maybe his boots. Less typical in the fact he's also a four hundred year old vampire with a shocking secret—he can't stand the sight of blood.

Buffi Van Pelt is just your average girl-next-door winery owner…or is she? The spunky single mom to twin boys also happens to be a winsome werewolf with secrets and troubles of her own. The winery that the gutsy good-girl recently inherited from her grandmother is on the verge of ruin. If Buffi can't find a use for the mysteriously tainted wine before time and her pantry's limited supply of red meat runs out, she and her pups will be left homeless, destitute and very, very hungry. Worse yet, her baby-daddy is the same hunky, bad-boy vampire rancher who's out to steal The Best Little Winery in Bloodsuck from under her paws.

Once upon a time their passion flamed hotter'n a summer's night in Dallas with three Cheerleaders and a side of habanero sauce. Tonight, love's lightning might just strike them twice…but only if the wine don't kill them first.

Welcome, gentle reader, to this, our second literary offering entitled, If You Give a Duke a Duchy, or alternatively, Love's Savage Whiplash. This is not your ordinary Regency Novel--oh, no. Rather, it is a Tall Tale of Panting Passion wherein a Disaffected Duke runs away to Sea to become a Pirate and ends up becoming Love Slave to a Ninja Queen, whilst at home he is replaced by a Nefarious Highwayman and ne’er-do-well who is, in turn, Ultimately Redeemed by his love for a Poor but Virtuous Governess.

Once upon a time, there were nine
naughty novelists. They were from all over the United States and Canada, and
through the magic of the Internet, they came together for blog hijinks,
friendship, and more. They bonded over their shared love of wine, chocolate,
shoes, and good books. But they had never been in the same place at once. Until one lucky weekend in New
Orleans.

There was much walking and
sightseeing. There were beignets and hurricanes and Voodoo shops. Plans were
made and projects were started. Copious amounts of writing occurred. Amazing
food was consumed. Much laughter filled the air. There may have been wine
involved. Okay, there may have been a lot of
wine involved.

2015-05-22

Okay, so, yeah, I know it's not really Mardi Gras. I mean, c'mon, it's not even TUESDAY! But for one day we're going to pretend like it is. Because I'm in the mood to give away some beads and trinkets and books and a variety of New Orleans-themed goodies. Y'all with me?

All right then. Here we go. I've always loved New Orleans. I've been there on more than a few occasions and enjoyed myself each and every time. I also love tattoos, which is why I was thrilled when I was asked to be part of the Midnight Ink anthology. Although, of course, when I was asked, we didn't know it would be called Midnight Ink. All we knew was we wanted to write connected stories involving a tattoo shop in New Orleans.

The collection turned out awesome, but it's no longer being sold. Which is sad--for me. Not so much for one of YOU, because it happens that I still have a copy of the collection which I will be giving away to one lucky person.

I'll also be giving away several digital copies of Inked Memories, which is my story from the Midnight Ink collection. Inked Memories is also the start of a brand new series I'm currently writing and hope to start releasing within a few months. You can find more about the Inked in O-Town series on my website...because, hey, everyone needs inspiration, and I find nothing inspires me as much as pretty covers.

But wait! I'm not finished yet! I'll be giving away a prize pack of New Orleans-themed goodies that I yet another series. Because I do love my series.

picked up on my last visit there. AND a copy of Nine Nights in New Orleans, the short story anthology the Nine Naughty Novelists released after our trip to New Orleans...you're seeing a pattern here, aren't you? Go to NOLA, get inspired. My story in NNiNO, is titled Blame It On The Voodoo, and I'm working on a second story in what I hope will be

So enter below and please enjoy the following excerpt from Inked Memories. Oh! and don't forget all the other fun happening this weekend!

All Sophie wants is a tattoo to
commemorate her battle with cancer. What she gets is celebrity tattoo artist
Declan Ross, the same sexy bad-boy who used to rock her world. This time,
they’ve both got scars, and the ones you can’t see are still the hardest to
cover.

it was that life was uncertain and one should
always eat dessert first.”

Early
December…

The café’s owner
must have seen her coming. Rousseau had Sophie’s usual order—iced coffee and a chocolate
caramel roll—all ready and waiting when she walked through the door of Café Bwe.
She smiled her thanks then quickly took her food back outside to her usual
table on the banquette. She never ate inside if she could help it. That man was
simply too gorgeous for anyone’s peace of mind—whether they were male or female.
If she sat inside, she’d only end up drooling over him. Once again she found
herself wondering how much truth there was to the rumors about him.

She’d heard it
said his touch was magic, that his sexual healing could cure whatever ailed you,
whether physical or emotional or anything in between. It had been awhile,
however, since there’d been so much as a single whisper about him. These days,
she suspected he was a reformed character, very much like herself.

Not that it
mattered. Even if she’d believed the whispers, or believed in magic, even if
Rousseau weren’t, by all accounts, happily married, the new Sophie would still
have to think long and hard before she gambled what was left of her uncertain future
on voodoo. Who knew what kind of price you’d have to pay for something like
that?

The old Sophie
wouldn’t have cared about any of that. Then again, the old Sophie would have
been eating breakfast inside the café. She’d have done Rousseau in a heartbeat—probably
right there on the counter—without thinking twice about the voodoo or the happily married.

The old Sophie had
been kind of a bitch, now that she thought about it.

Not that one, cher, a soft voice seemed
to whisper in her ear. He’s not for you.

Sophie heaved a
sigh. Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t already know. Not that one and not any
other one either, as far as she could see. That was okay. She was used to it by
now. She’d made her peace with the idea that she’d likely be spending the rest
of her life alone at about the same time she opted against having her breasts
reconstructed.

If she’d only lost
one, things might have been different. She might have had a reason then to go
through more surgery and another lengthy recovery in order to build a new
breast that would kind-of-sort-of- no-not-really match her existing one. But to
put herself through all that torture just to set herself up with an entirely fake rack? Two featureless
mounds that would never look right or feel authentic and that would only serve
as a constant reminder of what she’d lost? Yeah, that was so not happening.

How on earth was
tacking two alien appendages onto her already ravaged body supposed to help her
overcome her new aversion to viewing herself naked? There was only one thing
they’d be good for—helping her to attract new lovers into her bed. Lovers who,
in all likelihood, would be gone in a flash anyway, once they’d figured things
out.

Seriously, who
needed that?

She might as well
spare everyone the disappointment in store for them by letting them know up
front exactly what they were getting—or not getting—where her body was
concerned. If they couldn’t accept her as she was, did she really want them
anyway?

Brave words. Do you really mean them?

Yes, damn it, she
did. Much as she mourned what she’d lost, if she’d had it to do over again, if
she were to be presented once more with the exact same set of shitty-assed circumstances,
she was pretty sure she’d make the very same choices.

Life was more than
just her breasts. She was more than
just her breasts. If she had to sacrifice a part to safeguard the whole, so be
it. As long as she could open her eyes every morning and continue to put one
foot in front of another all day, as long as she could stay healthy, stay
cancer free, stay alive, she intended to at least try to enjoy the moments she
was given and live each one to the fullest. She might not be raking in as many
beads as before at Mardi Gras, and her steadiest beau might always be the one
who lived in the drawer of her bedside table, but on the plus side, she was
saving one helluva lot on sports bras.

Sophie started as
a passerby stumbling along the banquette suddenly lost his footing and slammed
into her table. She grabbed for her coffee to keep it from spilling when the
wrought iron table tilted precariously under the man’s unsteady weight.

“Watch out!”
Glancing up, she found herself staring into the bleary blue eyes of a drunken,
storefront Santa. Well, that was life in the Quarter for you, she supposed as
her heart continued its attempts to beat itself right out of her chest. The
smell of whisky and peppermint schnapps wafting off the man was so strong it
made her head spin. She pressed her free hand to her chest, willing her heart
to slow the fuck down.

Santa blinked back
at her, still resting his weight on the tabletop, a crumpled piece of paper
clutched in one fist. A slow smile curved his lips. Eyes twinkling, he leaned
in closer and leered.

“Well, hey there,
boo.Where y’at? You bein’ naughty or nice?”

Before Sophie
could even fashion a reply, Rousseau appeared in the doorway. He scowled
menacingly at the man. “Get out of here. Quit harassing my customer.”

Santa straightened
up, his expression one of affronted dignity as he glared at Rousseau. “Ain’t
harassin’ no one. She tripped me.”

“I did no such thing,” Sophie spluttered. She flashed
the man an indignant look, then watched in relief as he lurched stiffly away. A
flicker of motion from her tabletop caught her eye. The badly creased paper
Santa had left behind fluttered weakly in the slight breeze. “Hey, wait!” she
said as she snatched it up, intending to return it. Then she took a closer
look.

Midnight Ink. New Beginnings
Special. Discounted rates for survivor and memorial ink. Are you ready for a
new beginning? Say it in ink. Call, or visit us online for more information…

It’s a sign, that same soft voice
insisted.

Oh, it was a sign
all right. Sophie bit back a sigh. Hearing voices was a definite sign that she was losing her mind. Still, she couldn’t help
but appreciate the irony. It wasn’t as if New Orleans was hurting for tattoo
shops, so what were the odds she’d be handed a flyer for the very shop where
she’d gone for her own tattoos? Come to
think of it, maybe it was a sign
after all.

“What you got there?” Rousseau asked as he
ambled closer. He tilted his head to read the flyer. “Are you thinking of
getting another tattoo?”

Was she? She
already had several, but she hadn’t added anything to her “collection” in
several years.

“Oh, I don’t know.” But even as she said it, an image flashed through
her mind of a picture she’d recently seen online. It had shown a woman’s heavily
tattooed torso, flowers and elaborate scrollwork covering over the scars from
her mastectomies.

That tattoo hadn’t
really been Sophie’s style, but the idea of once again being able to celebrate
her body, of enjoying it, flaws and all, of showing it off rather than always
feeling the need to hide it away beneath layers of clothing, that had appealed
to her. A lot. She wasn’t even sure if it was possible for her to feel that way
about herself ever again, but if it was, if there was any chance at all…

Sophie felt a
thrill of excitement as the idea took hold. A new beginning, huh? Well, why the
fuck not? “You know what?” Smiling, she unzipped her jacket pocket to get to
her phone. “I think maybe I am.”

Sophie dialed the
number quickly before she could chicken out and change her mind. It was before
noon, so she wasn’t even sure the shop would be open yet, but the phone was picked
up on the second ring.

“Midnight Ink.” The
lilting voice on the phone was female; she sounded young and perky, carefree—everything
Sophie wasn’t. Sophie’s heart lurched. Shit was about to get real.

“Hi. I’m, uh…I’m
calling about your new beginnings special.” Sophie fingered the flyer in her
hand.
“I…I had surgery a couple of years ago for breast cancer, and I’m
interested in getting a chest piece done. You know, to cover the scars? Would
that qualify for your special rates?”

“Yes, of course,”
the voice replied, no longer quite so perky. “Um…let me see where I can fit you
in, okay? Did you have a particular artist in mind? Or a particular time frame
that was better for you?”

“No. Not really. I
mean, I just saw your flyer and…I haven’t actually had time to think about it
all that much.” Sign or no sign, Sophie suddenly found herself wondering if getting
a new tattoo was such a stellar idea after all. Memories of the last time she’d
gotten inked flashed through her mind bringing heat and longing and even more
uncertainty.

Declan’s voice teasing her through the worst
of it; his hands, firm yet gentle on her flesh, reassuring; the expression on
his face, focused, patient, intent…

Sometimes a tattoo
was not just a tattoo; it was
personal, almost too personal to trust to a stranger. At the moment, it seemed that her exhibitionist
streak had gone the way of her breasts. Could she really go through with this? Did
she really want to bare her chest to a stranger when she could hardly stand to
look in the mirror at herself? Maybe she could ask about a female artist? Maybe
that would help. Or maybe she should just forget the whole idea. “Maybe I
should think about it some more.”

“Hmm. Okay, well, actually,
it looks like all our regular artists are pretty booked up right now,” the
voice on the phone told her.

Sophie exhaled.
Her shoulders sagged—relief, mixed with just a trace of disappointment. “Oh. All
right. Well, thanks anyway for checking. I guess it’s not meant to be. Maybe
another time then.”

“Whoa, hold on
there. Not so fast. I wasn’t done yet. I’m sure
we can squeeze you in somewhere. You know, we’re also making appointments for our
guest artist, Declan Ross. He’ll be tattooing here for a few weeks. Is there
any chance you’d be interested in working with him?”

“Declan’s back?” Talk about signs! This one was
billboard-sized and covered in day-glo neon. “Isn’t he…I mean, I guess I
thought he was still out on the West Coast.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I
mean, he’s not here yet. Like I said,
he’s coming in primarily for the fundraiser at the end of the month. So…I take
it you’re interested then?”

Having Declan
here—that was a game changer. If he was the one tattooing her, it would be just
like old times. And the chance to see him again… That alone could make it all
worthwhile. Maybe she could do this
after all. “Yes. Yes, I think I am.”

“Well, good! Why
don’t you go ahead and give me your information, and we’ll get you signed up.”

“Yeah, okay.
Sure,” Sophie answered, barely aware of what she was saying. Declan was coming
back. It was the last thing she’d been expecting. And, now, in just a few weeks
she’d be seeing him again.

Now, that one you can have, cher. This
time, Sophie would swear the voice laughed out loud. That one’s all yours. He’s got your name written all over him.

2015-05-20

Welcome to Day Five of my week-and-a-half-long pity party. Well, y'all already knew I don't do short, right? Actually, I do occasionally. And, also, I am kinda short myself. But in general, short and me, we don't really have much to say to each other. Ah, the irony.

Speaking of irony, the Oberon series is all about coming home, and here I am all week complaining because I was home and didn't want to be. So since we're talking about being careful what you wish for, today's excerpt is a scene from the beginning of A Taste of Honey (book 4 in the series).

But first, please, please, please, download your FREE copy of Such Fleeting Pleasures. I'll be pulling this offer as soon as the limit is reached, so if you want it, don't delay!

In a lot of ways, Oberon is typical
of any one of several small towns to be found along California’s Central
Coast. Clinging to sheer, corrugated
green cliffs above a windswept strand of pale, golden sand, it lacks a little
of the endless sunshine boasted by its neighbors to the south, enjoying instead
a milder, more temperate climate and, for much of the year, a lot of fog.

The area surrounding the town lacks one other very
important California mainstay as well: the plethora of freeways that grace most
of the rest of state arelargely absent here. Bounded on the west by the broad, brilliant
blue crescent of San Bartolo Bay, and to the east by the majestic bulk of Mt.
Totawka, the ‘sacred mountain’ of local lore, Oberon is virtually
isolated. Set amid a tangled network of
canyons and creeks, undeveloped wilderness and--wherever the landscape and the
environment have cooperated--acres of agricultural fields, it’s a hard place to
get to. It can be an even harder place
to leave behind.

But if Oberon was ever the type of
funky beach town where teenaged girls with sun bleached hair, driving station
wagons with surfboards tied to the roof was a common sight, it certainly is not
that way anymore. So when Lucy
Greco-Cavanaugh did happen to spy one, rolling down Main Street one sunny
morning late in April, followed only a few minutes later, by a longhaired young
man in a VW convertible rabbit, also with surfboard, she knew something strange
was up.

Perhaps someone was making a movie, she
reasoned. Or maybe--and being a lifetime
resident of Oberon this was of course the theory she favored--a sudden tear in
the fabric of space-time had inadvertently allowed her to take a nostalgic
glimpse back in time to the California-dreamin’ fantasies of an earlier age.

Not coincidentally, this time
displacement theory was one that she found herself applying to more and more
events of late. She was thirty seven years old, and she had memories
that spanned most of those years, albeit, with varying amounts of clarity. But somehow, lately, it was almost as if all
those memories didn’t quite add up the way they should. For several months now, she had been aware of
a vague sense of dissatisfaction
growing within her, coupled with a worrisome preoccupation with the past. As if some invisible anchor line that had
once kept her mind tethered in the present had been cut. No matter how hard she tried to stay focused,
her mind kept drifting back to places it had already been.

Perhaps it had to do with the fact
that while everyone around her seemed suddenly immersed in fresh new lives and
new loves, she’d had to content herself with more of the same old,
same old. Not that there was any part of
her life that she wanted to change, she reminded herself sternly. She took a moment to rap her knuckles against
the side of one of the wooden half barrels that served as planters on the
terrace of the tea shop where she and her two best friends were having
breakfast. The same old everything she
had was pretty damn great.

She had two wonderful kids,
satisfying work, a comfortable house, and she’d been happily married to the
love of her life for the past sixteen and a half years. It was just that, after all those years,
everything seemed to have gotten the slightest bit stale. She couldn’t help but remember how things
used to be--

Lucy frowned as she reached across
the table for the pot of lavender honey.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she answered. She could feel both Marsha and
Scout eyeing her curiously as she occupied herself for several minutes
deliberately drizzling the honey over the buttered French baguette on her
plate, but she refused to return their gazes.
“And anyway, I was not sighing.”

“You were sighing,” Marsha insisted. “Wasn’t she sighing, Scout?”

Lucy looked up impatiently as Scout
turned weary hazel eyes in her direction.
“What can I say, Lucy? It sounded
like sighing to me, too.” Scout
shrugged, absently stroking her baby’s head.
Three week old Cole, who was turning out to be one of those
preternaturally alert infants who have to be held all the time, had finally
fallen asleep at her breast.

“Well, you’re wrong. Both of you.”
Lucy took a big bite of bread and honey, and stared defiantly at her
friends: Marsha with her new boyfriend, and Scout with both a new husband and a new baby. There was no way she was ever going to discuss
what was bothering her with either of them.

She couldn’t believe that, with
everything she had to be grateful for, she could still be so petty. She couldn’t believe that she would actually
begrudge her two best friends a little happiness. But the plain fact of the matter was that she
was so jealous of both of them, it was a wonder she wasn’t as green as an
avocado. She saw the way Sam acted
around Marsha, the way Nick looked at Scout, and she knew that once, she and
Dan had been that way, too. Somewhere
along the way it seemed they had lost that.

And she wanted it back. Oh, how she wanted it back! But, after all these years--she
wasn’t sure that was even possible.

You
couldn’t recreate newness could you? You
couldn’t expect to discover anything too different about the same old person
you’d been regularly and intimately exploring for almost two decades. And how could anyone ever hope to recapture
the exquisite torture of doubt and uncertainty that so often accompanied the
first stages of love? She wasn’t even sure she wanted to--except
when she remembered the way the agony transformed into ecstasy…

Be
careful what you wish for, a soft voice seemed to whisper in her head. She shivered as a gust of wind swept across the
terrace setting the wind chimes to tinkling in the trees around them. Lavender spikes swayed on their long stems
and the tiny pink Cecile Brunner roses that covered the arbor over their heads
shed a few more petals onto the table.
Cole whimpered slightly. Lucy
watched as Scout wrapped his blanket more snugly around her baby and Marsha
picked the petals out of her teacup.

“So...I think the honey turned out
pretty good, didn’t it?” she
asked as she swallowed the last of her bread, and determinedly pushed any other
thoughts out of her mind. Beekeeping was
a recent sideline she had started, she’d needed something new to occupy her
mind, after all. This lavender honey had
been one of her first forays into flavored honey.

“Good? Lucy, it’s sensational!” Scout assured her.

Marsha chuckled. “I think Sam thought he’d died and gone to
heaven when he first tasted it. He can’t
get enough of the stuff.”

Lucy poured honey on another slice of bread and felt her mood plummet
again as she registered the suspiciously rosy pink color that suddenly tinted
Marsha’s cheeks. Besides the lavender,
she’d also experimented with rosemary, ginger, vanilla, sage and white truffle
honeys in recent weeks. And although Dan
had expressed his approval of all of them, he had yet to take any of them
beyond the kitchen. She heaved another
sigh. No doubt about it. Something was seriously amiss in her
marriage.

“Lucy!” Marsha glared at her in exasperation

Today's contest: Now through Friday, enter below for a chance to win an Oberon mini-basket similar to this one...

2015-05-18

This post is late. I meant to post it yesterday, which is my daughter's birthday. And the reason I was posting about vampires on her birthday is because it was her idea that I write about vampires in the first place. It turned out to be an excellent idea, IMO, because even though I was initially skeptical, I've grown to absolutely LOVE my vampires. I'm finishing up book six in the series right now and then there's only one book left and I am going to MISS my vampires so much once I'm done with this series.

Anyway, moving on...

Let's recap. Last week I was supposed to be attending the RT Booklovers' Convention in Dallas Texas. I didn't make it, and I'm not real happy about that. Especially when I saw pictures of my poor neglected signing table looking all forlorn and encroached upon. See what I mean?

Anyway, as you can see, I was going to be signing three of my Children of Night books. What I like to think of as my boy books, since A) there are guys on the covers (duh!) and B), the romance in these three books is predominantly m/m. The other two are mostly m/f.

And, yes, btw, take it from me: writing a series that is that hard to categorize? Not too bright from a marketing standpoint. But what can you do? The heart wants what it wants and what these guys wanted was each other. Who am I to argue?

One of the reasons I was skeptical about writing vampires is all the conflicting traditions. Every writer has his or her own take on vampires--what they can or can't do. They need to sleep in their native soil--why's that? They die each day at daybreak only to revive after dark--how come? They can't see their reflection in mirrors--oh, FFS! How is that even possible?

Frankly, I'm pretty sure my daughter regretted starting me down this path because I complained endlessly about all of these things until I hammered out the details of what my vampires can and can't do and why they can or can't do them.

I'll let you in on the secret. My vampires don't even know this, but their species originated from an alien, parasitic species that crash landed here on earth and managed to survive by infesting the bloodstreams of their human hosts. They don't like sunlight or hot dry climates because they come from a planet that is cooler, wetter and darker. They don't like garlic because garlic thins the blood (truth!). They aren't dead--cause that'd just be creepy--but because they fall into a coma-like state while their body metamorphosizes, people used to think they had died and later came back from the dead. Like zombies. They age, but so very, very, very slowly that it's hard to tell. Their cells replicate virtually without error and they actually become stronger with age--kind of like trees--rather than weaker.

My vampires do have a few weaknesses. They're inordinately flammable. If they're drained of blood they'll die. There's even a vampire "blood plague" that was engineered by alchemists during the middle ages, and which nearly succeeded in wiping the entire species out.

My vampires are made, not born. Born Vampires are a myth...except when they're not. My twins, Julie and Marc Fischer, are the only two born vampires in existence. The truth about their heritage is a secret that's been kept from everyone--even them.

It occurred to me yesterday that almost all my books are about family relationships--and whether those families are bound by blood or by the heart is immaterial, IMO.

The twins were raised in secrecy and isolation by their sire, Conrad and his long term partner, Damian. I'm having a contest this week and giving away a signed print copy of either book 2, 3 or 4 in the series (IOW, the books I was supposed to be signing this weekend!) as well as a digital copy of book 1. The sign up is right below this, but keep reading after the jump, because I'm posting one of my favorite scenes from In the Dark (book one). This is a flashback to when Damian first learned about the twins. Enjoy and good luck!

Damian stood on the sidewalk outside the gate of the
Italianate Victorian mansion, staring irresolutely at the building before him,
trying hard to quell the queasy nervousness he was feeling. So it had been a
hundred and thirteen years since he’d last seen Conrad, was that any reason for
him to be trembling inside like a virginal debutante hoping she’d be asked to
dance? It wasn’t likely the man had changed. No doubt Conrad was still the same
tyrant he’d always been. Short-tempered. Overbearing. Domineering. Ruthless…

“So then why are you here, you fool?” he asked himself. Good
question. Why had he dropped everything and rushed to Conrad’s side
the minute the selfish bastard snapped his fingers? “You’re acting just like
the good little lap dog he always wanted you to be.”

But, the answer to that was obvious. He was here because it
was Conrad who’d asked him to come. Conrad, who never forgot and never
forgave and never took anyone back, who couldn’t possibly be reaching out to
Damian now in hopes of reconciling with him…but who could hardly have had any
other reason for contacting him, either.

“Idiot,” Damian chastised himself, as he leaned on the
doorbell. After all this time, he should know better than to get his hopes up
too high. He should have ignored the summons, pretended he’d never gotten the
entirely too cryptic message and stayed at home.

Ah, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Because, however
much he might wish it were otherwise, home was still exactly the same
place it had always been for him. Wherever Conrad was.

Damian’s heart contracted. He bit back a shaky sigh. “Es-es
yo,” he replied, his voice faltering just a little. “Damian.”

The intercom shut off with a snap and a buzzer sounded as
the gate was unlocked—for all of an instant. Damian grabbed for it just in time
and headed toward the house muttering beneath his breath—roundly cursing
himself and Conrad and whatever unlucky stars had happened to have been in
alignment on the day they’d first met. “I should have never have allowed
myself to become involved with such a…with such a peasant.” That had
been his first mistake.

The front door was ajar. Damian froze with his hand extended
toward the doorknob and his pulse racing with the thought that it could be a
trap he was walking into. For just an instant he considered retreating. But,
what the hell? He’d come this far, what was a little more lunacy?

Still, as he pushed through the door and stepped into the
darkened entrance hall the sound of his own heartbeat was so loud in his ears
it drowned out any other sound. “Lucy, I’m a-home,” he called in his best Ricky
Ricardo impersonation, almost jumping out of his skin when Conrad growled
softly,

“Quiet.”

Damian spun around to face him. For a very long moment he
just stared, unable to do anything but drink Conrad in, as though his eyes had
been starved for the sight of him. Finally, inexcusably late in the day, his
self-preservation instincts kicked in. Fear had him drawing back, straightening
his spine—even as his insides continued twisting themselves into knots. There
was a faint frown on Conrad’s stern face, a wary gleam in his glittering,
ametrine eyes. Damian’s own eyes widened in uneasy surprise when the squirming
bundles in his old friend’s arms finally registered.

He waved one hand at the babies in a seemingly careless
gesture as he joked, “Why, what are these, mi querido? Appetizers? But,
they’re so small! You cannot possibly be planning on our making a meal of
them?”

Conrad’s eyes blazed with a look that was just this side of
insanity. He laid back his lips and snarled savagely, “They’re not food, you
imbecile.” Then he turned on his heel and stalked away. “Shut the door,” he
hurled over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hallway.

Shaking his head, once again, at his own stupidity—for not
leaving while he still had the chance—Damian did as he’d been told and then
followed Conrad into the large room that had been intended as the mansion’s
formal dining room. Flames leaped and crackled in the ornate marble fireplace.

Another unwelcome surprise. Even though today was the first decently overcast
day the city had seen in weeks, it was certainly not cool enough to warrant a
fire.

Perhaps Conrad had another purpose in mind for the blaze?
Fire could serve as a weapon, could it not? Or as a devastatingly efficient
means of destruction. But who, or what, might he be intending to burn in its
flames tonight?

“Conrad, what the hell is going on?” All kidding aside now,
Damian studied his friend with mounting concern. Conrad, his face drawn, sat
slumped in an armchair uncomfortably near the hearth, and within arm’s reach of
the crib into which he’d placed the two infants. “You look terrible.”

Conrad ignored the question and waved Damian toward a second
armchair, on the other side of the fireplace. “Sit down.”

Damian crossed to the chair, but he cast a worried glance at
the hungry flames as he did. His nerves were shrieking warnings. What was it
that most alarmed him, he wondered; the doubtlessly deadly blaze, or his
potentially murderous companion? He’d never seen Conrad in such a mood as this
and he didn’t trust it. Standing in front of the chair, he hesitated. “Conrad,”
he murmured pleadingly.

“What is this? Why am I here?”

Conrad roused himself. Eyes flashing darkly, he fisted one
hand on the arm of his chair, leaned forward and fixed Damian with a menacing
glare. “It’s a long story. If you want to hear it, sit down!” Their eyes met.
As his gaze focused on Damian’s face, it seemed as though a little of the
madness left Conrad’s expression. His face relaxed. A small smile appeared and
graced his lips. “Please?”

Too surprised to reply, Damian plopped into the chair behind
him—quickly, before his legs could give out. It was the shock of being
addressed so cordially, he told himself, refusing to even consider the awful
possibility that it could have been Conrad’s smile that had once again made him
go weak in the knees. No. I can’t. Never again.

For another long moment the two men stared wordlessly at
each other. Finally, seemingly satisfied with whatever he’d seen in Damian’s
face, Conrad dropped his gaze. He slumped back in his chair and sighed. “It’s
good to see you, caro.” And then, again without giving Damian any chance
to recover from this latest shock, he launched into his tale. “There was this
girl…”

“And you’re certain they were born this way?” Damian asked,
when Conrad had reached the end of his story. “No. It can’t be. You must be
mistaken.”

“So, what then?” Conrad drawled sarcastically. “You think
they were turned in the hospital, perhaps? How? And by whom? The same beast who
attacked their mother, perhaps? Even assuming that was possible, why would
anyone do such a thing?”

Damian shook his head. “No sé, but…what are you going
to do with them?”

Conrad shrugged. Turning his head he gazed at the twins, his
expression one of pain, hopelessness, resignation. “There’s only one thing I
can do. I’ve given my word. I’m going to raise them.”

“No.” Conrad shook his head. “No, of course I don’t. I don’t
know why I said that. You must know I would never have asked you to come here
tonight if I believed that to be the case.”

“Why did you?”

Conrad hesitated. “I need help,” he said at last with a
small shrug. “I’m committed to keeping them alive but…I don’t see how I can do
it alone.”

Surely, I misunderstood? Damian stared at Conrad, too
shocked to speak. Surely, he is not expecting me to risk my life—my life—to
help save his dead lover’s bastard spawn? “You loved her that much?” he
asked, his heart contracting in pain, once again, when Conrad nodded.

“Yes, I did. I loved her very much. I’m sure I always will.”

That should have been enough, but still Damian was
unable to keep from torturing himself; from poking at his wounded pride, his
wounded dignity. His wounded heart. Dios mio, what next will he ask
of me? “So who else have you appealed to?” he drawled, practically asking
to be hurt once more.

“Tell me, Conrad, how many others had to turn you down
before you even recalled my existence?”

Conrad’s eyes widened in surprise. “There were no others.
You were the first person who came to mind. As of right now, you’re the only
person who knows anything at all about this other than me. I’m sure you’ll
understand that, if possible, I’d like to keep it that way.”

Damian nodded. “Of course.” Well, that’s something,
he thought, feeling slightly mollified—but only slightly. Because, most likely,
all that really meant was that Conrad had figured him for the biggest sucker of
the bunch, the idiot most likely to go along with so hopeless a plan.

For that reason alone, Damian wanted to refuse him.

But he couldn’t. Not after a hundred and thirteen years
spent regretting having walked away the first time. Not while Conrad was so
clearly hurting, so obviously in trouble. And especially not when refusing
would only mean that someone else, rather than Damian himself, would be the one
to comfort him. Lap dog, he thought, silently berating himself once
again for his weakness. Perhaps if you roll over and beg nicely enough,
he’ll even consent to give you a pat on the head every now and again?

“I will be your friend,” Damian told him, scraping together
all the dignity he could muster. “And I will be your partner in this…this
madness. I will do whatever I can to keep your secret, to help you raise them,
to safeguard their lives. But I won’t be your lover again. That’s over with.”

Conrad nodded acceptance. “I understand. I wouldn’t have
asked it of you. I’m through with such things myself. Love…in the end, I find,
it brings nothing but sorrow.” And then, to Damian’s consternation, he put his
head in his hands and wept.

“No, no, mi querido, don’t!” Crossing the room,
Damian perched on the arm of Conrad’s chair and pulled him close. But the smell
of Conrad’s skin and the weight of his head as it rested against his thigh had
Damian struggling to keep his fangs sheathed. Ay, dios mio, I must be
insane to be doing this.

“If only I could have done something to save her,” Conrad
murmured, his words instantly quelling Damian’s lust. “If only— Ah, but you
should have seen her, Damian. She was so young, so full of life…”

“Si, amigo,” Damian murmured as he stroked his
fingers through Conrad’s hair and resisted the urge to make off-color jokes
about life and blood and babies and other things the dead girl might have been
full of at one time or another. He doubted Conrad was in any mood to appreciate
that sort of humor right now. “I’m sure she was.”

A shudder ran through Conrad and he groaned. “You’re right,
you know, it is madness. I don’t know what I was thinking asking you
here. I should never have involved you in this. And, now…oh, my dear, however
are we going to manage?”

At that, Damian almost smiled. “Are you asking me for my
opinion, mi amor?” Perhaps a hundred years has changed him, after all.
His gaze cut to the twins, asleep in their crib, looking far too peaceful,
innocent and trusting, especially considering how much heartache they’d already
caused and how slim their chances were for survival. He felt an odd and
completely unexpected feeling of fellowship, of kinship, possibly even
affection, for them both. And he did smile then. There’s not a chance in
hell we can pull this off, but at least we can go down fighting. At least we’ll
be together when the end comes. I’d always hoped that might be the case.

Laughing softly, he leaned down, pressed his lips briefly to
Conrad’s temple and murmured, “But, what is it you’re so worried about? Look at
us, Conrad. Such a happy little family—are we not the perfect picture of
domestic bliss? Why, I’m sure this is just the start of another grand
adventure.”

2015-05-16

So a funny thing happened on my way to RT this past week. I ended up with a dental emergency and canceled at the last minute--really at the last minute. My bags were packed, my car was parked, my dog was boarded, my plants were watered, my mail was on hold, my family was otherwise engaged--all of which helped to contribute to the logistical nightmare that ensued.

Well, not the plants so much, but everything else. However, there will be more about that later.

The end result was that I was left Home Alone since Tuesday...or mostly alone, anyway, because I did have my dog since I selfishly cut short his Doggy Vacay at the fabulous Dog Balancing Hotel (which may be his favorite place in the world, other than dead center in the middle of my bed, so that there's no room for anyone else. dogs. gotta love 'em.) so that he could keep me company because why should I be the only one to suffer?

Here he is in his Steampunk gear. It's a terrible picture but, hello, Steampunk! Isn't he cute?

Anyway, it's taken me up until today, Saturday morning, to figure out what to do about all the fun that he and I were/are missing out on; and also what to do with all the swag and goodies and giveaways and books I was planning on giving away (some of which is chocolate--no good for him and not such a great idea for me right now either, given the condition of my poor tooth) and which are now, for the most part, cluttering up my already cluttered house.

By the way, I blame the delay on figuring stuff out partially on the antibiotics and pain meds I'm taking, as well as the judicious application of the wine that I was supposed to have been drinking in Dallas this week...but, yeah, there will be more about that later too.

In any case, the answer turned out to be actually quite simple: throw a fabulously epic pity party. In actuality, of course, I've been partying very nicely on my own all week, thank you very much, but misery does love company, so I'd like to welcome everyone I know to party with me all week long! woo-hoo!

My original thought was to confine the party to this weekend, because, after all, RT ends tomorrow. But given that I'm still in the process of making arrangements, and making up graphics, and finalizing details, and contests and giveaways and prizes and...did I happen to mention I'm also on deadline? Yeah. More about that later too. So who knows when I'll actually get this party started! So I've decided to keep things going through Memorial Day Weekend, with time-sensitive deals and blink-and-you've-missed-it giveaways (like the one directly below) occurring throughout.

So, without further ado, here's discount #1. See the pretty card pictured below? Yeah, Carina sent me those. They offer a very generous 50% discount if you buy anything from the Carina Press website, but they're only good through tomorrow. Guess who won't find enough people IRL to hand these out to in time? Yep, that'd be me. So I'm doing a virtual hand-out. Here ya go!

50%! That's HUGE. And it's good for any book they sell! Of course, I'd love it if you bought mine. But I also recommend checking out any of my Antho Sisters, JK Coi, Stacy Gail or Jenny Schwartz. Or my NNN blogmate, Kate Davies. Or any of the fabulous authors on the Here Be Magic blog ...and yeah, there's too many of them to link to here, but seriously: check them out!

BUT DO IT QUICK! Because, like I said, this deal is only good until tomorrow night. May 17, which happens to be my daughter's birthday (Big Hint: that will be the subject of tomorrow's contest/giveaway).

And if 50% is not enough of an enticement, how about a free copy of This Winter Heart to sweeten the deal? Check out the Rafflecopter contest link below to learn how you can enter.

And, speaking of free, last week's FREE DOWNLOAD of Such Fleeting Pleasures is back! Here's another card I was planning on handing out all week in Dallas.

So that's it for today. Welcome to the party! Grab a drink, grab a reading device of your choice, and enjoy! The official site will be on Facebook, in my Crone's Nest Group, but be sure to check back here as well, during the next week, to see what new deals are in the works!

2015-05-05

All Sophie wants is a tattoo to commemorate her battle with cancer. What she gets is celebrity tattoo artist Declan Ross, the same sexy bad-boy who, once-upon-a-time, used to rock her world.

With his hit television show on hiatus, Declan is back in the Big Easy. A charity event at Midnight Ink, the shop where he got his start, seems like the perfect opportunity to use his celebrity status to publicize a good cause…and just maybe improve his own image in the process. The last thing he’s expecting, or thinks he needs, is a chance meeting with the girl he left behind.

Last time they were together, Declan was the one who was damaged. This time, they’ve both got scars; and those you can’t see are the hardest to cover.

“Okay. You’re all
set.” Declan smoothed a final piece of tape into place, securing a layer of
plastic wrap over the tattoo he’d just finished—his last of the day.

The pretty blonde
who was his latest client slowly sat up on the padded table, her T-shirt
clasped against her chest. “Thank you,” she said as she gingerly slipped the shirt
over her head and then tugged her clothes back into place. “It’s beautiful.”

Declan nodded. “I
told you it would be.” He’d designed the tattoo—an abstract, deconstructed
peacock—to follow the lines of her body. It flowed along her curves, from
shoulder to hip, in a sinuous cascade of perfect, paisley-shaped feathers. “I’m
glad you like it.”

It bore only the
slightest resemblance to the tattoo she’d thought she was getting when she’d
come in today—and a damn good thing too. The pictures she’d sent in as examples
of what she was looking to get had been boring and uninteresting and didn’t
really work with his style. They were too simple, too small, and would have
required entirely too much line work. Plus, she wanted it across her lower back,
which was totally the wrong placement for something like this.

Declan took his
craft seriously. The watercolor-style tattoos for which he was becoming well known
always looked better on a larger canvas. It hadn’t taken much to convince her
of that and to make her see the wisdom of letting him give her what he wanted.

Plenty of artists
would have been all too happy to give her just another, generic-looking tattoo,
but she’d come to him. It would be
nice to think she’d come for his eye, his talent, his artistry, for all the
experience he brought to the table. In all likelihood, however, what she’d come
for the Declan Ross she thought she knew from TV.

“Now be sure and read
over this sheet,” Declan instructed as he handed her the page he’d had printed
detailing his personal aftercare suggestions. “It’s got a lot of important
information. You’ll want to keep it covered for the first couple of hours, but
that’s all. After that, you’ll want to
rinse it off, pat it dry and leave it uncovered as much as possible while it’s
healing. You’ll also want to stop on your way home and pick up some calendula
cream. I know you’ll hear otherwise, but trust me; you really want to steer
clear of petroleum-based products, scented-lotions and especially sunscreen.”

“Calendula cream,”
she repeated dutifully, as though she had no idea what he was talking about. She
probably didn’t.

“Or coconut oil.
That’s good too, but I don’t know if you can find organic around here. If not,
you’re really better off sticking with the calendula.”

“Okay.” She nodded
for a moment, still seated on the edge of the table, gazing at him expectantly,
making no move to leave.

Declan clapped his
hands together. “Okay. Good. So. Any last questions for me?”

“Yes.” Immediately,
she thrust the paper back at him. “Can I get your autograph?”

Declan pretended not
to notice the rolled eyes, the faked coughs, the snorts of derisive laughter
the other artists tried to muffle. Bastards. They were just jealous because no
one was asking for theirs. “Sure thing,” he said as he forced a smile. He
grabbed a marker off the closest counter and then paused. “Who should I make it
out to?”

“Oh, it’s for me.”

Declan waited.

“Make it out to
Chrissy.”

“Chrissy. Right.”
He hurriedly scrawled his name, added a couple of platitudes, and then handed
the paper back to her. “But, seriously, Chrissy, I need you to follow the
instructions on this. All right? They’re important.” It really annoyed him when
clients failed to care for their tattoos. He did good work, but once someone
left his chair, he had no control over what happened. He hated when a good tat
got messed up because some dumbass didn’t follow directions. “C’mon.” He held
out his hand to help the girl down from the table. “Let me walk you out.”

He hadn’t taken
more than a few steps before Shep Montgomery looked up from the sleeve he was
working on and called out to him, “Hey, Ross.”

“Yeah?” Declan
turned his head and warily eyed his former mentor. It’s not like he wasn’t used
to it by now, but it was rarely a good sign when someone addressed him by his
last name.

“I don’t know what you’ve gotten used to out
there in Hollywood, but around here, we still have to clean up after
ourselves.”

“Really?” The
words were out before Declan could stop himself. “’Cause that’s not how I
remember it.”

He cast an
involuntary glance around the shop, taking it all in; the brick walls, the
stainless steel, the sinks, the counters, the padded black vinyl, the red and
black paint, the gaudy gold trim. He loved tattoo shops. He loved everything
about them—the smells, the sounds, the artwork on the walls, the funky, edgy
vibe they invariably gave off. But he did not especially love cleaning them.
And, the way he recalled it, back when he’d first come to work at Midnight
Ink—back when the legendary Henry Lee Cairn still owned the shop and Declan was
just a fiery-eyed, tattoo artist wannabe and Shep’s lowly apprentice—that’s
mostly what he’d done.

Even after he’d
progressed to the point where he was allowed to set up his own station and tattoo
on his own, without supervision, as low man on the totem pole, he’d still had
to clean up after himself and everyone
else. Not to mention cover for the receptionist on her days off. Good
times—not.

One thing he had
absolutely not come back to New
Orleans to do was to pick up where he’d left off. He was here to help publicize
a good cause. One of the charities that would benefit from the New Year’s Eve
tattoo-a-palooza was his own pet cause, the Wounded Warriors Project. His
father had been in the military. He’d come back from the first Gulf War with
PTSD and killed himself when Declan was just a kid. Whatever Declan could do to
help other kids from having to go through what he’d gone through, he’d do it.
No questions. Not even when it meant having to put up with a certain amount of
crap from his co-workers. His former
co-workers.

“Anyway, it’s
Oakland, all right? Not Hollywood. And relax. I’m not gone for the day. I’ll
take care of it before I leave.”

Shep nodded. “A’ight.
See that you do. And don’t leave it too long either.”

On the other hand,
there was a limit to how much crap
Declan was willing to take. “Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Montgomery. I will jump on that right away.” He flipped him off with a
muttered, “And you can jump on this.”

An excited giggle
at his shoulder recalled Declan’s attention.

Chrissy looked
fascinated. No. Worse. She looked freaking turned on. So this was what she’d come here for, bratty Declan, the artist
everyone loved to hate—especially the other artists. Fan-fucking-tastic. He
could just imagine her hauling out her cell phone the minute she hit the
banquette, getting her girlfriends on the line so she could tell them all how, it was so awesome! Omigod,you guys, it was just like being on an
episode of Inked in O-Town!

All the thoughts
he’d been entertaining while he’d tattooed her, of asking her if she wanted to
meet up with him later for a drink, of inviting her back to his hotel room
after that, were forgotten. There was no way he was tapping that.

Still, as his
agent never tired of reminding him, giving the audience what they wanted was as
big a part of his job now as the actual tattoos. So he flashed her a wink and
his trademark smirk, then guided her as quickly as possible toward the front of
the shop. Celebrity Declan would just have to suck it up; he’d have to live
with not getting laid for one more night.

He supposed he shouldn’t
really resent all the crap that came along with his success. He’d known what he
was letting himself in for when he signed on to play a jerkified version of
himself on television. Or, as his last girlfriend had preferred to put it,
someone who was maybe just a littlebit more of a jerk on camera than he was
in real life. But who cared what she thought? He made good money doing what he
did and she sure hadn’t complained when he was spending most of it on her.

Last he heard,
Tonya had moved to LA and was dating some kind of football player. So how much sensitivity
and self-awareness could she really have been looking for in a guy anyway?

As long as it
continued to bring in the Benjamins, he guessed he’d just keep playing himself for
as many seasons as they’d let him. Being loud, rude, and obnoxious sure hadn’t
hurt his reputation as an artist any—or his bank account, for that matter.
These days, he was busier than he’d ever been.